“Do’s yo’ want anyt’ing else, Missy Flora?” she asked.

“If I do I’ll call,” replied the little girl, and Mammy again disappeared.

The basket was lined with rose-colored silk, and there were little pockets all around it.  In the centre lay a cushion on which was a lace pattern defined by delicate threads and tiny circles of pins.  A little strip of finished lace was rolled up in a bit of tissue paper.  Flora took off the paper.  “See, it is the jessamine pattern,” she explained.  “My mother’s governess was a Belgian lady, and she taught my mother how to make lace and my mother taught me.”

“I wish I could make lace,” said Sylvia.  “It would be lovely to make some for a present for my mother.”

“Of course it would.  I’ll teach you this winter,” promised the good-natured Flora; “let me see your hands.  You know a lace-maker’s hands must be as smooth as silk, because any roughness would catch the delicate threads.”

Sylvia’s hands were still scratched and roughed from her fall in Miss Rosalie’s garden and her scramble over the wall, and Flora shook her head.  “You’ll have to wait awhile.  And you must wear gloves every time you go out, and wash your hands in milk every night,” she said very seriously.  “Now I’ll show you my embroidery.  Mam-m-e-e!  Mam-m-e-e,” and another basket was brought and opened.  This basket was also lined with rose-colored silk, but the silk had delicate green vines running over it.  On the inside of the cover, held in place by tiny straps, were two pairs of shining scissors with gold handles, a gold-mounted emery bag, shaped like a strawberry, an embroidery stiletto of ivory, and a gold thimble.

Flora lifted out the embroidery frame, and putting on her thimble took a few exact, dainty stitches in the collar.

“What lovely work you can do, Flora!” exclaimed Sylvia.  “Don’t you ever play dolls?” remembering her own cherished dolls in their small chairs in the corner of her room at home.

“Oh, I used to,” replied Flora, “but since I began school at Miss Patten’s I don’t seem to care about dolls.”

“Flora can play on the harp,” announced Grace.

“Oh, only just a little,” responded Flora quickly.

“I think Flora can do more things than any girl I ever knew,” declared Sylvia admiringly; “and I was just thinking that the servants did everything in the world.”

Flora laughed.  “You never lived on a plantation, or you couldn’t think that.  Why, my mother works more than Mammy ever did.  She has to tell all the house darkies what to do, and see that all the hands have clothes, and that the fruits are preserved.  Why, she’s always busy,” replied Flora.  “And of course ladies have to know how to do things,” she concluded.

When Grace and Sylvia went to their own room Flora went with them.  “I’ll show you where that secret staircase is,” she said, and opening the closet door pressed on a broad panel which moved slowly.